Assaults on the Casually Mundane by K. Jean King

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Lots of women dye their hair. Sometimes it’s a bleach blonde, sometimes a wild, electric pink. None is so enthralling as the firey red, or the alluring deep, deep burgundy. And we see these women, their long, stunning locks falling about their soft skin, and we wonder, “Does the carpet match the drapes?”

My first question is this – why do we have an idiom just about pubic hair? Because we all know what that means: does the color of the hair on your head match the color of the hair on your groin? Is there anywhere else, any other culture on the planet, who invented an entire turn of phrase just to subtly ask a person, “Hey – what color are your pubes?”

Okay, so, let’s say that’s okay. I will just I accept the premise that we can all just go around asking each other about the follicles surrounding our genitals. I get it: curtains hang on walls like your hair around your face, and the hair atop your pelvic region sits like a shag rug.

But, really, what you are trying to unveil by asking “Does the carpet match the drapes?” is whether your hair, which is visible, matches the clandestine fleece of your nether regions, which are hidden. Neither drapes nor carpets fit the bill there.

What you should be asking is something more like, “Do the forks match the fine china?” Like your hair, the forks you use on a daily basis. And, like your pubic hair, the fine china only comes out for loved ones on Christmas and Thanksgiving.

Whether you want to know or whether you don’t want to know, there are always ways to find out. Subtle ways, less offensive ways. But if there is one thing about our quaint little pube-based idiom that is for sure, it is this:

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All the cool kids are doing it. In today’s society, one’s street credibility is directly proportionate to how far one’s pants sag from the waistline.

“See that guy with the spider web tattooed to his elbow? He killed a guy.”

“So what? I expose my jockey shorts. Ain’t got nothin’ on me.”

As impressive as it is to watch these young bulls trolling down the streets, holding their pants up with their hands, thus negating the use of pants in the first place, some people don’t care for it. Surprisingly, some people are repulsed rather than impressed falling helplessly witness to some asshole’s asshole. They are calling for a ban on saggy pants.

It’s a fine goal, to be sure, requiring that today’s youth be fully clothed in public at all times. A ban on saggy pants would free up pant-holding hands for more useful activities like helping old ladies across the street, picking up litter, or planting community herb gardens.

But where exactly are these saggy pants being banned? Are they individual places, like church or school?

“Tighten that belt, son. God doesn’t want to see your Calvin Klines.”

Or is it a more substantial, earthwide ban?

“I’m sorry, sir. Your pants are two inches below the minimal earth requirement. Please board this shuttle for the moon. No one cares what you look like there.”

But what’s more important is that, no matter where they’re being banned, who is supposed to be enforcing this? Perhaps it is another task that will fall to local police departments.

“License and registration, please. Have you been drinking tonight sir? And how many inches of your boxers are exposed? All right, I’m going to need you to step out of the car.”

Or perhaps there would be instituted a saggy-pant taskforce, specifically created to tackle the plaguing problem of droopy drawers. They would stalk the streets, on the lookout for fashion offenders, just waiting for the next bare-bottomed offender.

“Yo! Quick, tighten your belt! It’s the saggy pants police!”

We all encounter stuff we don’t like. And sometimes we can see things without being able to put our fingers on it precisely. We say, “Ban saggy pants!” but what we mean is, “Can we please return to a culture of self-respect?”

Irregulatble regulations are certainly not the way to go about it. Instead of disallowing sagging pants, what we should be doing is allowing public pantsing of those who refuse to wear their waists on their waists. You don’t like your pants on your hips? Well now they’re around your ankles. You’re welcome.

It’s all over the web: fit is the new skinny. In other words, being fit has replaced being skinny as the most desirable physical trait. Being fit now puts you at the height of sexual allure; being skinny just makes you skinny.

This shouldn’t be surprising. The cultural ideals about what makes sexual partners appealing change all the time. That is because it isn’t about what your body is, it’s about what your body says about you.

If you had been a skinny cave dweller, you would be last on Neanderthal Magazine’s Most Eligible Mate’s list. Instead of sexy, your fellow tribesman would say, “Do not choose skinny for mate – likely has parasite. Choose mate with six pack. Can outrun many mountain lion.” They walked around on their new bipedal legs saying, “Fit is the new standing upright.”

Then as time went on and society changed, so did the idea of what was considered sexually appealing. You get agriculture, you get civilization. You no longer need to wrestle bears to survive overnight.

You get money, and now money gets food. The more money you have the more food you can buy. And suddenly your BMI is directly proportionate to your gross annual income. If you are skinny it means you’re a poor-ass mo-fo who likely slops muck out of pigpens for a living. If you’re fat, you’re a banker. You’re a lawyer. You’re the duke of Montchestershire.

You. Are. Sexy.

Until food becomes mass produced. Now everyone has access to food. Now everyone is eating. And eating. And eating. Motherfucker, we can’t stop eating! Now everyone has extra junk in their trunks. Pot bellies are no longer reserved for the rich. (Is there nothing the poor isn’t taking from us!)

That is how skinny became sexy in the first place. For the first time in human history, the less child-bearing your hips were, the more attractive you became.

So why is fit the new skinny? In a culture where toned abs and thighs no longer suggest you can protect the pack from the routine Tiger attack, why has it become attractive again?

Fit is indicative of health. In lieu of chasing wild boars all day, one becomes fit by exercising regularly and maintaining a healthy diet. Fit translates to, “I’ve got my shit together.” Unlike skinny, which is the new assumed-anorexic or drug addict.

In this culture, fit has become sexy because it assumes you lack emotional problems, which is the least attractive quality you can have in 2013. If you’re fat it translates to “you have no self control,” and if you’re skinny it means “you have emotional issues.”

Eventually something will replace fit as the paradigm of sexual attractiveness. But until Cosmo runs the headline, “Bionic Is the New Fit,” it’s either therapy or taut thighs.